MODEL The mouth parts demurely, yes, and the hipsmove—as the box promises--likethe real thing.But the eyes blame me already for multitudes: the broken promise of perfection, allthe leftover pieces sitting on the table I couldn’t figure out how to work in. A dancer’s step.A saint’s resolve. The artist’s passion. The clockmaker’s care. All tricky feats of workmanship, requiring the small- motor skills of tradesmen or minor gods--out of my league. She can’t be consoled, though--my mistake of fitting in the heart’s desire and a soul’s stirring. She sits on the floor, naked and flushed as a newborn, lookingaway now toward the open window, the birdsong. More than I ever intended.